Yet Again by Max Beerbohm

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Till I gave myself the task of making a little selection from what Ihad written since last I formed a book of essays, I had no notion thatI had put, as it were, my eggs into so many baskets--The SaturdayReview, The New Quarterly, The New Liberal Review, Vanity Fair, TheDaily Mail, Literature, The Traveller, The Pall Mall Magazine, The MayBook, The Souvenir Book of Charing Cross Hospital Bazaar, The CornhillMagazine, Harper's Magazine, and The Anglo-Saxon Review...Ouf! But thesigh of relief that I heave at the end of the list is accompanied by asmile of thanks to the various authorities for letting me use herewhat they were so good as to require.

M. B.

CONTENTS

THE FIRESEEING PEOPLE OFFA MEMORY OF A MIDNIGHT EXPRESSPORRO UNUM...A CLUB IN RUINS`273'A STUDY IN DEJECTIONA PATHETIC IMPOSTURETHE DECLINE OF THE GRACESWHISTLER'S WRITINGICHABODGENERAL ELECTIONSA PARALLELA MORRIS FOR MAY-DAYTHE HOUSE OF COMMONS MANNERTHE NAMING OF STREETSON SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHDAYA HOME-COMING`THE RAGGED REGIMENT'THE HUMOUR OF THE PUBLICDULCEDO JUDICIORUM

If I were `seeing over' a house, and found in every room an iron cagelet into the wall, and were told by the caretaker that these cageswere for me to keep lions in, I think I should open my eyes ratherwide. Yet nothing seems to me more natural than a fire in the grate.

Doubtless, when I began to walk, one of my first excursions was to thefender, that I might gaze more nearly at the live thing roaring andraging behind it; and I dare say I dimly wondered by what blesseddispensation this creature was allowed in a domain so peaceful as mynursery. I do not think I ever needed to be warned against scaling thefender. I knew by instinct that the creature within it was dangerous--fiercer still than the cat which had once strayed into the room andscratched me for my advances. As I grew older, I ceased to wonder atthe creature's presence and learned to call it `the fire,' quitelightly. There are so many queer things in the world that we have notime to go on wondering at the queerness of the things we seehabitually. It is not that these things are in themselves less queerthan they at first seemed to us. It is that our vision of them hasbeen dimmed. We are lucky when by some chance we see again, for afleeting moment, this thing or that as we saw it when it first camewithin our ken. We are in the habit of saying that `first impressionsare best,' and that we must approach every question `with an openmind'; but we shirk the logical conclusion that we were wiser in ourinfancy than we are now. `Make yourself even as a little child' weoften say, but recommending the process on moral rather than onintellectual grounds, and inwardly preening ourselves all the while onhaving `put away childish things,' as though clarity of vision werenot one of them.

I look around the room I am writing in--a pleasant room, and my own,yet how irresponsive, how smug and lifeless! The pattern of thewallpaper blamelessly repeats itself from wainscote to cornice; andthe pictures are immobile and changeless within their glazed frames--faint, flat mimicries of life. The chairs and tables are just as theircarpenter fashioned them, and stand with stiff obedience just wherethey have been posted. On one side of the room, encased in coveringsof cloth and leather, are myriads of words, which to some people, butnot to me, are a fair substitute for human company. All around me, infact, are the products of modern civilisation. But in the whole roomthere are but three things living: myself, my dog, and the fire in mygrate. And of these lives the third is very much the most intenselyvivid. My dog is descended, doubtless, from prehistoric wolves; butyou could hardly decipher his pedigree on his mild, domesticated face.My dog is as tame as his master (in whose veins flows the blood of theold cavemen). But time has not tamed fire. Fire is as wild a thing aswhen Prometheus snatched it from the empyrean. Fire in my grate is asfierce and terrible a thing as when it was lit by my ancestors, nightafter night, at the mouths of their caves, to scare away the ancestorsof my dog. And my dog regards it with the old wonder and misgiving.Even in his sleep he opens ever and again one eye to see that we arein no danger. And the fire glowers and roars through its bars at himwith the scorn that a wild beast must needs have for a tame one. `Youare free,' it rages, `and yet you do not spring at that man's throatand tear him limb from limb and make a meal of him! `and, gazing atme, it licks its red lips; and I, laughing good-humouredly, rise andgive the monster a shovelful of its proper food, which it leaps at andnoisily devours.

Fire is the only one of the elements that inspires awe. We breatheair, tread earth, bathe in water. Fire alone we approach withdeference. And it is the only one of the elements that is alwaysalert, always good to watch. We do not see the air we breathe--exceptsometimes in London, and who shall say that the sight is pleasant? Wedo not see the earth revolving; and the trees and other vegetablesthat are put forth by it come up so slowly that there is no fun inwatching them. One is apt to lose patience with the good earth, and tohanker after a sight of those multitudinous fires whereover it is,after all, but a thin and comparatively recent crust. Water, when weget it in the form of a river, is pleasant to watch for a minute orso, after which period the regularity of its movement becomes astedious as stagnation. It is only a whole seaful of water that canrival fire in variety and in loveliness. But even the spectacle of seaat its very best--say in an Atlantic storm--is less thrilling than thespectacle of one building ablaze. And for the rest, the sea has itshours of dulness and monotony, even when it is not wholly calm.Whereas in the grate even a quite little fire never ceases to beamusing and inspiring until you let it out. As much fire as wouldcorrespond with a handful of earth or a tumblerful of water is yet ajoy to the eyes, and a lively suggestion of grandeur. The otherelements, even as presented in huge samples, impress us as less augustthan fire. Fire alone, according to the legend, was brought down fromHeaven: the rest were here from the dim outset. When we call a thingearthy we impute cloddishness; by `watery' we imply insipidness;`airy' is for something trivial. `Fiery' has always a noblesignificance. It denotes such things as faith, courage, genius. Earthlies heavy, and air is void, and water flows down; but flames aspire,flying back towards the heaven they came from. They typify for us thespirit of man, as apart from aught that is gross in him. They are thesymbol of purity, of triumph over corruption. Water, air, earth, canall harbour corruption; but where flames are, or have been, there isinnocence. Our love of fire comes partly, doubtless, from our naturallove of destruction for destruction's sake. Fire is savage, and so,even after all these centuries, are we, at heart. Our civilisation isbut as the aforesaid crust that encloses the old planetary flames. Todestroy is still the strongest instinct of our nature. Nature is still`red in tooth and claw,' though she has begun to make fine flourisheswith tooth-brush and nail-scissors. Even the mild dog on my hearth-rughas been known to behave like a wolf to his own species. Scratch hismaster and you will find the caveman. But the scratch must be a sharpone: I am thickly veneered. Outwardly, I am as gentle as you, gentlereader. And one reason for our delight in fire is that there is nohumbug about flames: they are frankly, primaevally savage. But this isnot, I am glad to say, the sole reason. We have a sense of good andevil. I do not pretend that it carries us very far. It is but thetooth-brush and nail-scissors that we flourish. Our innate instincts,not this acquired sense, are what the world really hinges on. But thisacquired sense is an integral part of our minds. And we revere firebecause we have come to regard it as especially the foe of evil--as ameans for destroying weeds, not flowers; a destroyer of wicked cities,not of good ones.

The idea of hell, as inculcated in the books given to me when I was achild, never really frightened me at all. I conceived the possibilityof a hell in which were eternal flames to destroy every one who hadnot been good. But a hell whose flames were eternally impotent todestroy these people, a hell where evil was to go on writhing yetthriving for ever and ever, seemed to me, even at that age, toopatently absurd to be appalling. Nor indeed do I think that to themore credulous children in England can the idea of eternal burninghave ever been quite so forbidding as their nurses meant it to be.Credulity is but a form of incaution. I, as I have said, never had anywish to play with fire; but most English children are stronglyattracted, and are much less afraid of fire than of the dark. Eternaldarkness, with a biting east-wind, were to the English fancy a farmore fearful prospect than eternal flames. The notion of these flamesarose in Italy, where heat is no luxury, and shadows are lurked in,and breezes prayed for. In England the sun, even at its strongest, isa weak vessel. True, we grumble whenever its radiance is a trifle lesswatery than usual. But that is precisely because we are a people whosenature the sun has not mellowed--a dour people, like all northerners,ever ready to make the worst of things. Inwardly, we love the sun, andlong for it to come nearer to us, and to come more often. And it ispartly because this craving is unsatisfied that we cower so fondlyover our open hearths. Our fires are makeshifts for sunshine. Autumnafter autumn, `we see the swallows gathering in the sky, and in theosier-isle we hear their noise,' and our hearts sink. Happy, selfishlittle birds, gathering so lightly to fly whither we cannot followyou, will you not, this once, forgo the lands of your desire? `Shallnot the grief of the old time follow?' Do winter with us, this once!We will strew all England, every morning, with bread-crumbs for you,will you but stay and help us to play at summer! But the delicatecruel rogues pay no heed to us, skimming sharplier than ever inpursuit of gnats, as the hour draws near for their long flight overgnatless seas.

Only one swallow have I ever known to relent. It had built its nestunder the eaves of a cottage that belonged to a friend of mine, a manwho loved birds. He had a power of making birds trust him. They wouldcome at his call, circling round him, perching on his shoulders,eating from his hand. One of the swallows would come too, from hisnest under the eaves. As the summer wore on, he grew quite tame. Andwhen summer waned, and the other swallows flew away, this onelingered, day after day, fluttering dubiously over the threshold ofthe cottage. Presently, as the air grew chilly, he built a new nestfor himself, under the mantelpiece in my friend's study. And everymorning, so soon as the fire burned brightly, he would flutter down toperch on the fender and bask in the light and warmth of the coals. Butafter a few weeks he began to ail; possibly because the study was asmall one, and he could not get in it the exercise that he needed;more probably because of the draughts. My friend's wife, who was veryclever with her needle, made for the swallow a little jacket of redflannel, and sought to divert his mind by teaching him to perform afew simple tricks. For a while he seemed to regain his spirits. Butpresently he moped more than ever, crouching nearer than ever to thefire, and, sidelong, blinking dim weak reproaches at his disappointedmaster and mistress. One swallow, as the adage truly says, does notmake a summer. So this one's mistress hurriedly made for him a littleovercoat of sealskin, wearing which, in a muffled cage, he waspersonally conducted by his master straight through to Sicily. Therehe was nursed back to health, and liberated on a sunny plain. He neverreturned to his English home; but the nest he built under themantelpiece is still preserved in case he should come at last.

When the sun's rays slant down upon your grate, then the fire blanchesand blenches, cowers, crumbles, and collapses. It cannot compete withits archetype. It cannot suffice a sun-steeped swallow, or ripen aplum, or parch the carpet. Yet, in its modest way, it is to your roomwhat the sun is to the world; and where, during the greater part ofthe year, would you be without it? I do not wonder that the poor, whenthey have to choose between fuel and food, choose fuel. Food nourishesthe body; but fuel, warming the body, warms the soul too. I do notwonder that the hearth has been regarded from time immemorial as thecentre, and used as the symbol, of the home. I like the socialtradition that we must not poke a fire in a friend's drawing-roomunless our friendship dates back full seven years. It rests evidently,this tradition, on the sentiment that a fire is a thing sacred to themembers of the household in which it burns. I dare say the fender hasa meaning, as well as a use, and is as the rail round an altar. In`The New Utopia' these hearths will all have been rased, of course, asdemoralising relics of an age when people went in for privacy and werenot always thinking exclusively about the State. Such heat as may beneeded to prevent us from catching colds (whereby our vitality wouldbe lowered, and our usefulness to the State impaired) will be suppliedthrough hot-water pipes (white-enamelled), the supply being strictlyregulated from the municipal water-works. Or has Mr. Wells arrangedthat the sun shall always be shining on us? I have mislaid my copy ofthe book. Anyhow, fires and hearths will have to go. Let us make themost of them while we may.

Personally, though I appreciate the radiance of a family fire, I givepreference to a fire that burns for myself alone. And dearest of allto me is a fire that burns thus in the house of another. I find aninalienable magic in my bedroom fire when I am staying with friends;and it is at bedtime that the spell is strongest. `Good night,' saysmy host, shaking my hand warmly on the threshold; you've everythingyou want?' `Everything,' I assure him; `good night.' `Good night.'`Good night,' and I close my door, close my eyes, heave a long sigh,open my eyes, set down the candle, draw the armchair close to the fire(my fire), sink down, and am at peace, with nothing to mar myhappiness except the feeling that it is too good to be true.

At such moments I never see in my fire any likeness to a wild beast.It roars me as gently as a sucking dove, and is as kind and cordial asmy host and hostess and the other people in the house. And yet I donot have to say anything to it, I do not have to make myself agreeableto it. It lavishes its warmth on me, asking nothing in return. Forfifteen mortal hours or so, with few and brief intervals, I have beenmaking myself agreeable, saying the right thing, asking the aptquestion, exhibiting the proper shade of mild or acute surprise,smiling the appropriate smile or laughing just so long and just soloud as the occasion seemed to demand. If I were naturally a brilliantand copious talker, I suppose that to stay in another's house would beno strain on me. I should be able to impose myself on my host andhostess and their guests without any effort, and at the end of the dayretire quite unfatigued, pleasantly flushed with the effect of my ownmagnetism. Alas, there is no question of my imposing myself. I canrepay hospitality only by strict attention to the humble, arduousprocess of making myself agreeable. When I go up to dress for dinner,I have always a strong impulse to go to bed and sleep off my fatigue;and it is only by exerting all my will-power that I can array myselffor the final labours: to wit, making myself agreeable to some man orwoman for a minute or two before dinner, to two women during dinner,to men after dinner, then again to women in the drawing-room, and thenonce more to men in the smoking-room. It is a dog's life. But one hasto have suffered before one gets the full savour out of joy. And I donot grumble at the price I have to pay for the sensation of basking,at length, in solitude and the glow of my own fireside.

Too tired to undress, too tired to think, I am more than content towatch the noble and ever-changing pageant of the fire. The finest partof this spectacle is surely when the flames sink, and gradually thered-gold caverns are revealed, gorgeous, mysterious, with inmostrecesses of white heat. It is often thus that my fire welcomes me whenthe long day's task is done. After I have gazed long into its depths,I close my eyes to rest them, opening them again, with a start,whenever a coal shifts its place, or some belated little tongue offlame spurts forth with a hiss.... Vaguely I liken myself to thewatchman one sees by night in London, wherever a road is up, huddledhalf-awake in his tiny cabin of wood, with a cresset of live coalbefore him.... I have come down in the world, and am a night-watchman,and I find the life as pleasant as I had always thought it must be,except when I let the fire out, and awake shivering.... Shivering Iawake, in the twilight of dawn. Ashes, white and grey, some rustycinders, a crag or so of coal, are all that is left over from lastnight's splendour. Grey is the lawn beneath my window, and littleghosts of rabbits are nibbling and hobbling there. But anon the eastwill be red, and, ere I wake, the sky will be blue, and the grassquite green again, and my fire will have arisen from its ashes, acackling and comfortable phoenix.

SEEING PEOPLE OFF

I am not good at it. To do it well seems to me one of the mostdifficult things in the world, and probably seems so to you, too.

To see a friend off from Waterloo to Vauxhall were easy enough. But weare never called on to perform that small feat. It is only when afriend is going on a longish journey, and will be absent for a longishtime, that we turn up at the railway station. The dearer the friend,and the longer the journey, and the longer the likely absence, theearlier do we turn up, and the more lamentably do we fail. Our failureis in exact ratio to the seriousness of the occasion, and to the depthof our feeling.

In a room, or even on a door-step, we can make the farewell quiteworthily. We can express in our faces the genuine sorrow we feel. Nordo words fail us. There is no awkwardness, no restraint, on eitherside. The thread of our intimacy has not been snapped. The leave-taking is an ideal one. Why not, then, leave the leave-taking at that?Always, departing friends implore us not to bother to come to therailway station next morning. Always, we are deaf to these entreaties,knowing them to be not quite sincere. The departing friends wouldthink it very odd of us if we took them at their word. Besides, theyreally do want to see us again. And that wish is heartilyreciprocated. We duly turn up. And then, oh then, what a gulf yawns!We stretch our arms vainly across it. We have utterly lost touch. Wehave nothing at all to say. We gaze at each other as dumb animals gazeat human beings. We `make conversation'--and such conversation! Weknow that these are the friends from whom we parted overnight. Theyknow that we have not altered. Yet, on the surface, everything isdifferent; and the tension is such that we only long for the guard toblow his whistle and put an end to the farce.

On a cold grey morning of last week I duly turned up at Euston, to seeoff an old friend who was starting for America.

Overnight, we had given him a farewell dinner, in which sadness waswell mingled with festivity. Years probably would elapse before hisreturn. Some of us might never see him again. Not ignoring the shadowof the future, we gaily celebrated the past. We were as thankful tohave known our guest as we were grieved to lose him; and both theseemotions were made evident. It was a perfect farewell.

And now, here we were, stiff and self-conscious on the platform; and,framed in the window of the railway-carriage, was the face of ourfriend; but it was as the face of a stranger--a stranger anxious toplease, an appealing stranger, an awkward stranger. `Have you goteverything?' asked one of us, breaking a silence. `Yes, everything,'said our friend, with a pleasant nod. `Everything,' he repeated, withthe emphasis of an empty brain. `You'll be able to lunch on thetrain,' said I, though this prophecy had already been made more thanonce. `Oh yes,' he said with conviction. He added that the train wentstraight through to Liverpool. This fact seemed to strike us as ratherodd. We exchanged glances. `Doesn't it stop at Crewe?' asked one ofus. `No,' said our friend, briefly. He seemed almost disagreeable.There was a long pause. One of us, with a nod and a forced smile atthe traveller, said `Well!' The nod, the smile, and the unmeaningmonosyllable, were returned conscientiously. Another pause was brokenby one of us with a fit of coughing. It was an obviously assumed fit,but it served to pass the time. The bustle of the platform wasunabated. There was no sign of the train's departure. Release--ours,and our friend's--was not yet.

My wandering eye alighted on a rather portly middle-aged man who wastalking earnestly from the platform to a young lady at the next windowbut one to ours. His fine profile was vaguely familiar to me. Theyoung lady was evidently American, and he was evidently English;otherwise I should have guessed from his impressive air that he washer father. I wished I could hear what he was saying. I was sure hewas giving the very best advice; and the strong tenderness of his gazewas really beautiful. He seemed magnetic, as he poured out his finalinjunctions. I could feel something of his magnetism even where Istood. And the magnetism, like the profile, was vaguely familiar tome. Where had I experienced it?

In a flash I remembered. The man was Hubert le Ros. But how changedsince last I saw him! That was seven or eight years ago, in theStrand. He was then (as usual) out of an engagement, and borrowedhalf-a-crown. It seemed a privilege to lend anything to him. He wasalways magnetic. And why his magnetism had never made him successfulon the London stage was always a mystery to me. He was an excellentactor, and a man of sober habit. But, like many others of his kind,Hubert le Ros (I do not, of course, give the actual name by which hewas known) drifted seedily away into the provinces; and I, like everyone else, ceased to remember him.

It was strange to see him, after all these years, here on the platformof Euston, looking so prosperous and solid. It was not only the fleshthat he had put on, but also the clothes, that made him hard torecognise. In the old days, an imitation fur coat had seemed to be asintegral a part of him as were his ill-shorn lantern jaws. But now hiscostume was a model of rich and sombre moderation, drawing, notcalling, attention to itself. He looked like a banker. Any one wouldhave been proud to be seen off by him.

`Stand back, please.' The train was about to start, and I wavedfarewell to my friend. Le Ros did not stand back. He stood clasping inboth hands the hands of the young American. `Stand back, sir, please!'He obeyed, but quickly darted forward again to whisper some finalword. I think there were tears in her eyes. There certainly were tearsin his when, at length, having watched the train out of sight, heturned round. He seemed, nevertheless, delighted to see me. He askedme where I had been hiding all these years; and simultaneously repaidme the half-crown as though it had been borrowed yesterday. He linkedhis arm in mine, and walked me slowly along the platform, saying withwhat pleasure he read my dramatic criticisms every Saturday.

I told him, in return, how much he was missed on the stage. `Ah, yes,'he said, `I never act on the stage nowadays.' He laid some emphasis onthe word `stage,' and I asked him where, then, he did act. `On theplatform,' he answered. `You mean,' said I, `that you recite atconcerts?' He smiled. `This,' he whispered, striking his stick on theground, `is the platform I mean.' Had his mysterious prosperityunhinged him? He looked quite sane. I begged him to be more explicit.

`I suppose,' he said presently, giving me a light for the cigar whichhe had offered me, `you have been seeing a friend off?' I assented. Heasked me what I supposed he had been doing. I said that I had watchedhim doing the same thing. `No,' he said gravely. `That lady was not afriend of mine. I met her for the first time this morning, less thanhalf an hour ago, here,' and again he struck the platform with hisstick.

I confessed that I was bewildered. He smiled. `You may,' he said,`have heard of the Anglo-American Social Bureau?' I had not. Heexplained to me that of the thousands of Americans who annually passthrough England there are many hundreds who have no English friends.In the old days they used to bring letters of introduction. But theEnglish are so inhospitable that these letters are hardly worth thepaper they are written on. `Thus,' said Le Ros, `the A.A.S.B. suppliesa long-felt want. Americans are a sociable people, and most of themhave plenty of money to spend. The A.A.S.B. supplies them with Englishfriends. Fifty per cent. of the fees is paid over to the friends. Theother fifty is retained by the A.A.S.B. I am not, alas, a director. IfI were, I should be a very rich man indeed. I am only an employe'. Buteven so I do very well. I am one of the seers-off.'

Again I asked for enlightenment. `Many Americans,' he said, `cannotafford to keep friends in England. But they can all afford to be seenoff. The fee is only five pounds (twenty-five dollars) for a singletraveller; and eight pounds (forty dollars) for a party of two ormore. They send that in to the Bureau, giving the date of theirdeparture, and a description by which the seer-off can identify themon the platform. And then--well, then they are seen off.'

`But is it worth it?' I exclaimed. `Of course it is worth it,' said LeRos. `It prevents them from feeling "out of it." It earns them therespect of the guard. It saves them from being despised by theirfellow-passengers--the people who are going to be on the boat. Itgives them a footing for the whole voyage. Besides, it is a greatpleasure in itself. You saw me seeing that young lady off. Didn't youthink I did it beautifully?' `Beautifully,' I admitted. `I envied you.There was I--' `Yes, I can imagine. There were you, shuffling fromfoot to foot, staring blankly at your friend, trying to makeconversation. I know. That's how I used to be myself, before Istudied, and went into the thing professionally. I don't say I'mperfect yet. I'm still a martyr to platform fright. A railway stationis the most difficult of all places to act in, as you have discoveredfor yourself.' `But,' I said with resentment, `I wasn't trying to act.I really felt.' `So did I, my boy,' said Le Ros. `You can't actwithout feeling. What's his name, the Frenchman--Diderot, yes--saidyou could; but what did he know about it? Didn't you see those tearsin my eyes when the train started? I hadn't forced them. I tell you Iwas moved. So were you, I dare say. But you couldn't have pumped up atear to prove it. You can't express your feelings. In other words, youcan't act. At any rate,' he added kindly, `not in a railway station.'`Teach me!' I cried. He looked thoughtfully at me. `Well,' he said atlength, `the seeing-off season is practically over. Yes, I'll give youa course. I have a good many pupils on hand already; but yes,' hesaid, consulting an ornate note-book, `I could give you an hour onTuesdays and Fridays.'

His terms, I confess, are rather high. But I don't grudge theinvestment.

A MEMORY OF A MIDNIGHT EXPRESS

Often I have presentiments of evil; but, never having had one of themfulfilled, I am beginning to ignore them. I find that I have alwayswalked straight, serenely imprescient, into whatever trap Fate haslaid for me. When I think of any horrible thing that has befallen me,the horror is intensified by recollection of its suddenness. `But amoment before, I had been quite happy, quite secure. A moment later--'I shudder. Why be thus at Fate's mercy always, when with a littleordinary second sight...Yet no! That is the worst of a presentiment:it never averts evil, it does but unnerve the victim. Best, after all,to have only false presentiments like mine. Bolts that cannot bedodged strike us kindliest from the blue.

And so let me be thankful that my sole emotion as I entered an emptycompartment at Holyhead was that craving for sleep which, aftermidnight, overwhelms every traveller--especially the Saxon travellerfrom tumultuous and quick-witted little Dublin. Mechanically,comfortably, as I sank into a corner, I rolled my rug round me, laidmy feet against the opposite cushions, twitched up my coat collarabove my ears, twitched down my cap over my eyes.

It was not the jerk of the starting train that half awoke me, but theconsciousness that some one had flung himself into the compartmentwhen the train was already in motion. I saw a small man puttingsomething in the rack--a large black hand-bag. Through the haze of mysleep I saw him, vaguely resented him. He had no business to haveslammed the door like that, no business to have jumped into a movingtrain, no business to put that huge hand-bag into a rack which was`for light baggage only,' and no business to be wearing, at this hourand in this place, a top-hat. These four peevish objections floatedsleepily together round my brain. It was not till the man turnedround, and I met his eye, that I awoke fully--awoke to danger. I hadnever seen a murderer, but I knew that the man who was so steadfastlypeering at me now...I shut my eyes. I tried to think. Could I bedreaming? In books I had read of people pinching themselves to seewhether they were really awake. But in actual life there never was anydoubt on that score. The great thing was that I should keep all mywits about me. Everything might depend on presence of mind. Perhapsthis murderer was mad. If you fix a lunatic with your eye...

Screwing up my courage, I fixed the man with my eye. I had never seensuch a horrible little eye as his. It was a sane eye, too. It radiateda cold and ruthless sanity. It belonged not to a man who would killyou wantonly, but to one who would not scruple to kill you for apurpose, and who would do the job quickly and neatly, and not be foundout. Was he physically strong? Though he looked very wiry, he waslittle and narrow, like his eyes. He could not overpower me by force,I thought (and instinctively I squared my shoulders against thecushions, that he might realise the impossibility of overpowering me),but I felt he had enough `science' to make me less than a match forhim. I tried to look cunning and determined. I longed for a moustachelike his, to hide my somewhat amiable mouth. I was thankful I couldnot see his mouth--could not know the worst of the face that wasstaring at me in the lamplight. And yet what could be worse than hiseyes, gleaming from the deep shadow cast by the brim of his top-hat?What deadlier than that square jaw, with the bone so sharplydelineated under the taut skin?

The train rushed on, noisily swaying through the silence of the night.I thought of the unseen series of placid landscapes that we werepassing through, of the unconscious cottagers snoring there in theirbeds, of the safe people in the next compartment to mine--to his. Notmoving a muscle, we sat there, we two, watching each other, like twohostile cats. Or rather, I thought, he watched me as a snake watches arabbit, and I, like a rabbit, could not look away. I seemed to hear myheart beating time to the train. Suddenly my heart was at astandstill, and the double beat of the train receded faintly. The manwas pointing upwards...I shook my head. He had asked me in a lowvoice, whether he should pull the hood across the lamp.

He was standing now with his back turned towards me, pulling his hand-bag out of the rack. He had a furtive back--the back of a man who, inhis day, had borne many an alias. To this day I am ashamed that I didnot spring up and pinion him, there and then. Had I possessed oneounce of physical courage, I should have done so. A coward, I let slipthe opportunity. I thought of the communication-cord, but how could Imove to it? He would be too quick for me. He would be very angry withme. I would sit quite still and wait. Every moment was a long reprieveto me now. Something might intervene to save me. There might be acollision on the line. Perhaps he was a quite harmless man...I caughthis eyes, and shuddered...

His bag was open on his knees. His right hand was groping in it.(Thank Heaven he had not pulled the hood over the lamp!) I saw himpull out something--a limp thing, made of black cloth, not unlike thething which a dentist places over your mouth when laughing-gas is tobe administered. `Laughing-gas, no laughing matter'--the irrelevantand idiotic embryo of a pun dangled itself for an instant in my brain.What other horrible thing would come out of the bag? Perhaps somegleaming instrument?... He closed the bag with a snap, laid it besidehim. He took off his top-hat, laid that beside him. I was surprised (Iknow not why) to see that he was bald. There was a gleaming high lighton his bald, round head. The limp, black thing was a cap, which heslowly adjusted with both hands, drawing it down over the brow andbehind the ears. It seemed to me as though he were, after all, hoodingthe lamp; in my feverish fancy the compartment grew darker when theorb of his head was hidden. The shadow of another simile for hisaction came surging up... He had put on the cap so gravely, sojudicially. Yes, that was it: he had assumed the black cap, thatdecent symbol which indemnifies the taker of a life; and might theLord have mercy on my soul... Already he was addressing me... What hadhe said? I asked him to repeat it. My voice sounded even further awaythan his. He repeated that he thought we had met before. I heard myvoice saying politely, somewhere in the distance, that I thought not.He suggested that I had been staying at some hotel in Colchester sixyears ago. My voice, drawing a little nearer to me, explained that Ihad never in my life been at Colchester. He begged my pardon and hopedno offence would be taken where none had been meant. My voice, comingright back to its own quarters, reassured him that of course I hadtaken no offence at all, adding that I myself very often mistook oneface for another. He replied, rather inconsequently, that the worldwas a small place.

Evidently he must have prepared this remark to follow my expectedadmission that I had been at that hotel in Colchester six years ago,and have thought it too striking a remark to be thrown away. Aguileless creature evidently, and not a criminal at all. Then Ireflected that most of the successful criminals succeed rather throughthe incomparable guilelessness of the police than through any devilishcunning in themselves. Besides, this man looked the very incarnationof ruthless cunning. Surely, he must but have dissembled. Mysuspicions of him resurged. But somehow, I was no longer afraid ofhim. Whatever crimes he might have been committing, and be going tocommit, I felt that he meant no harm to me. After all, why should Ihave imagined myself to be in danger? Meanwhile, I would try to drawthe man out, pitting my wits against his.

I proceeded to do so. He was very voluble in a quiet way. Before longI was in possession of all the materials for an exhaustive biographyof him. And the strange thing was that I could not, with the best willin the world, believe that he was lying to me. I had never heard a mantelling so obviously the truth. And the truth about any one, howevercommonplace, must always be interesting. Indeed, it is the commonplacetruth--the truth of widest application--that is the most interestingof all truths.

I do not now remember many details of this man's story; I remembermerely that he was `travelling in lace,' that he had been born atBoulogne (this was the one strange feature of the narrative), thatsomebody had once left him ś100 in a will, and that he had a littledaughter who was `as pretty as a pink.' But at the time I wasenthralled. Besides, I liked the man immensely. He was a kind andsimple soul, utterly belying his appearance. I wondered how I evercould have feared him and hated him. Doubtless, the reaction from myprevious state intensified the kindliness of my feelings. Anyhow, myheart went out to him. I felt that we had known each other for manyyears. While he poured out his recollections I felt that he was an oldcrony, talking over old days which were mine as well as his. Little bylittle, however, the slumber which he had scared from me came hoveringback. My eyelids drooped; my comments on his stories became few andmuffled. `There!' he said, `you're sleepy. I ought to have thought ofthat.' I protested feebly. He insisted kindly. `You go to sleep,' hesaid, rising and drawing the hood over the lamp. It was dawn when Iawoke. Some one in a top-hat was standing over me and saying `Euston.'`Euston?' I repeated. `Yes, this is Euston. Good day to you.' `Goodday to you,' I repeated mechanically, in the grey dawn.

Not till I was driving through the cold empty streets did I rememberthe episode of the night, and who it was that had awoken me. I wishedI could see my friend again. It was horrible to think that perhaps Ishould never see him again. I had liked him so much, and he had seemedto like me. I should not have said that he was a happy man. There wassomething melancholy about him. I hoped he would prosper. I had aforeboding that some great calamity was in store for him, and wished Icould avert it. I thought of his little daughter who was `as pretty asa pink.' Perhaps Fate was going to strike him through her. Perhapswhen he got home he would find that she was dead. There were tears inmy eyes when I alighted on my doorstep.

Thus, within a little space of time, did I experience two deepemotions, for neither of which was there any real justification. Iexperienced terror, though there was nothing to be afraid of, and Iexperienced sorrow, though there was nothing at all to be sorry about.And both my terror and my sorrow were, at the time, overwhelming.

You have no patience with me? Examine yourselves. Examine one another.In every one of us the deepest emotions are constantly caused by someabsurdly trivial thing, or by nothing at all. Conversely, the greatthings in our lives--the true occasions for wrath, anguish, rapture,what not--very often leave us quite calm. We never can depend on anyright adjustment of emotion to circumstance. That is one of manyreasons which prevent the philosopher from taking himself and hisfellow-beings quite so seriously as he would wish.

PORRO UNUM...

By graceful custom, every newcomer to a throne in Europe pays a roundof visits to his neighbours. When King Edward came back from seeingthe Tsar at Reval, his subjects seemed to think that he had fulfilledthe last demand on his civility. That was in the days of Abdul Hamid.None of us wished the King to visit Turkey. Turkey is notinternationally powerful, nor had Abdul any Guelph blood in him; andso we were able to assert, by ignoring her and him, ourhumanitarianism and passion for liberty, quite safely, quite politely.Now that Abdul is deposed from `his infernal throne,' it is taken as amatter of course that the King will visit his successor. Well, let HisMajesty betake himself and his tact and a full cargo of VictorianOrders to Constantinople, by all means. But, on the way, nestling inthe very heart of Europe, perfectly civilised and strifeless, jewelledall over with freedom, is another country which he has not visitedsince his accession--a country which, oddly enough, none but I seemsto expect him to visit. Why, I ask, should Switzerland be cold-shouldered?

I admit she does not appeal to the romantic imagination. She neverhas, as a nation, counted for anything. Physically soaring out ofsight, morally and intellectually she has lain low and said nothing.Not one idea, not one deed, has she to her credit. All that is worthknowing of her history can be set forth without compression in a fewlines of a guide-book. Her one and only hero--William Tell--never, aswe now know, existed. He has been proved to be a myth. Also, he is theone and only myth that Switzerland has managed to create. He exhaustedher poor little stock of imagination. Living as pigmies among theblind excesses of Nature, living on sufferance there, animalculae, hersons have been overwhelmed from the outset, have had no chancewhatsoever of development. Even if they had a language of their own,they would have no literature. Not one painter, not one musician, havethey produced; only couriers, guides, waiters, and other parasites. Asmug, tame, sly, dull, mercenary little race of men, they exist by andfor the alien tripper. They are the fine flower of commercialcivilisation, the shining symbol of international comity, and havenever done anybody any harm. I cannot imagine why the King should notgive them the incomparable advertisement of a visit.

Not that they are badly in need of advertisement over here. Every yearthe British trippers to Switzerland vastly outnumber the Britishtrippers to any other land--a fact which shows how little the romanticimagination tells as against cheapness and comfort of hotels and thenotion that a heart strained by climbing is good for the health. Andthis fact does but make our Sovereign's abstention the moreremarkable. Switzerland is not `smart,' but a King is not the figure-head merely of his entourage: he is the whole nation's figure-head.Switzerland, alone among nations, is a British institution, and KingEdward ought not to snub her. That we expect him to do so withoutprotest from us, seems to me a rather grave symptom of flunkeyism.

Fiercely resenting that imputation, you proceed to raise difficulties.`Who,' you ask, `would there be to receive the King in the name of theSwiss nation?' I promptly answer, `The President of the SwissRepublic.' You did not expect that. You had quite forgotten, if indeedyou had ever heard, that there was any such person. For the life ofyou, you could not tell me his name. Well, his name is not very widelyknown even in Switzerland. A friend of mine, who was there lately,tells me that he asked one Swiss after another what was the name ofthe President, and that they all sought refuge in polite astonishmentat such ignorance, and, when pressed for the name, could only screw uptheir eyes, snap their fingers, and feverishly declare that they hadit on the tips of their tongues. This is just as it should be. In anideal republic there should be no one whose name might not at anymoment slip the memory of his fellows. Some sort of foreman there mustbe, for the State's convenience; but the more obscure he be, and themore automatic, the better for the ideal of equality. In the Republicsof France and of America the President is of an extrusive kind. Hisoffice has been fashioned on the monarchic model, and his wholeposition is anomalous. He has to try to be ornamental as well asuseful, a symbol as well as a pivot. Obviously, it is absurd to singleout one man as a symbol of the equality of all men. And not lessunreasonable is it to expect him to be inspiring as a patrioticsymbol, an incarnation of his country. Only an anointed king, whoseforefathers were kings too, can be that. In France, where kings havebeen, no one can get up the slightest pretence of emotion for thePresident. If the President is modest and unassuming, and doesn't, asdid the late M. Faure, make an ass of himself by behaving in a kinglymanner, he is safe from ridicule: the amused smiles that follow himare not unkind. But in no case is any one proud of him. Never does anyone see France in him. In America, where no kings have been, they areable to make a pretence of enthusiasm for a President. But no realchord of national sentiment is touched by this eminent gentleman whohas no past or future eminence, who has been shoved forward for aspace and will anon be sent packing in favour of some other upstart.Let some princeling of a foreign State set foot in America, and lo!all the inhabitants are tumbling over one another in their desire fora glimpse of him--a desire which is the natural and pathetic outcomeof their unsatisfied inner craving for a dynasty of their own. Humannature being what it is, a monarchy is the best expedient, all theworld over. But, given a republic, let the thing be done thoroughly,let the appearance be well kept up, as in Switzerland. Let thePresident be, as there, a furtive creature and insignificant, notmerely coming no man knows whence, nor merely passing no man knowswhither, but existing no man knows where; and existing not even as aname--except on the tip of the tongue. National dignity, as well asthe republican ideal, is served better thus. Besides, it is lesstrying for the President.

And yet, stronger than all my sense of what is right and proper is thedesire in me that the President of the Swiss Republic should, just foronce, be dragged forth, blinking, from his burrow in Berne (Berne isthe capital of Switzerland), into the glare of European publicity, andbe driven in a landau to the railway station, there to await the Kingof England and kiss him on either cheek when he dismounts from thetrain, while the massed orchestras of all the principal hotels playour national anthem--and also a Swiss national anthem, hastilycomposed for the occasion. I want him to entertain the King, thatevening, at a great banquet, whereat His Majesty will have thePresident's wife on his right hand, and will make a brief but gracefulspeech in the Swiss language (English, French, German, and Italian,consecutively) referring to the glorious and never-to-be-forgottenname of William Tell (embarrassed silence), and to the vast number ofhis subjects who annually visit Switzerland (loud and prolongedcheers). Next morning, let there be a review of twenty thousandwaiters from all parts of the country, all the head-waiters receivinga modest grade of the Victorian Order. Later in the day, let the Kingvisit the National Gallery--a hall filled with picture post-cards ofthe most picturesque spots in Switzerland; and thence let him beconducted to the principal factory of cuckoo-clocks, and, after someof the clocks have been made to strike, be heard remarking to thePresident, with a hearty laugh, that the sound is like that of thecuckoo. How the second day of the visit would be filled up, I do notknow; I leave that to the President's discretion. Before his departureto the frontier, the King will of course be made honorary manager ofone of the principal hotels.

I hope to be present in Berne during these great days in thePresident's life. But, if anything happen to keep me here, I shallcontent myself with the prospect of his visit to London. I long to seehim and his wife driving past, with the proper escort of Life Guards,under a vista of quadrilingual mottoes, bowing acknowledgments to us.I wonder what he is like. I picture him as a small spare man, with aslightly grizzled beard, and pleasant though shifty eyes behind apince-nez. I picture him frock-coated, bowler-hatted, and evidentlynervous. His wife I cannot at all imagine.

A CLUB IN RUINS

An antique ruin has its privileges. The longer the period of itscrumbling, the more do the owls build their nests in it, the more dothe excursionists munch in it their sandwiches. Thus, year by year,its fame increases, till it looks back with contempt on the days whenit was a mere upright waterproof. Local guide-books pander more andmore slavishly to its pride; leader-writers in need of a patheticmetaphor are more and more frequently supplied by it. If there be anysordid question of clearing it away to make room for something else,the public outcry is positively deafening.

Not that we are still under the sway of that peculiar cult which besetus in the earlier part of the nineteenth century. A bad poet orpainter can no longer reap the reward of genius merely by turning hisattention to ruins under moonlight. Nor does any one cause to be builtin his garden a broken turret, for the evocation of sensibility inhimself and his guests. There used to be one such turret near thesummit of Campden Hill; but that familiar imposture was rased a yearor two ago, no one protesting. Fuit the frantic factitioussentimentalism for ruins. On the other hand, the sentiment for them isas strong as ever it was. Decrepit Carisbrooke and its rivals annuallytighten their hold on Britannia's heart.

I do not grudge them their success. But the very fact that they are sosuccessful inclines me to reserve my own personal sentiment rather forthose unwept, unsung ruins which so often confront me, here and there,in the streets of this aggressive metropolis. The ruins made, not byTime, but by the ruthless skill of Labour, the ruins of houses not oldenough to be sacrosanct nor new enough to keep pace with the demandsof a gasping and plethoric community--these are the ruins that move meto tears. No owls flutter in them. No trippers lunch in them. In noguide-book or leading-article will you find them mentioned. Theirpathetic interiors gape to the sky and to the street, but nor gods normen hold out a hand to save them. The patterns of bedroom wall-papers,(chosen with what care, after how long discussion! only a few shortyears or months ago) stare out their obvious, piteous appeal to us formercy. And their dumb agony is echoed dumbly by the places where doorshave been--doors that lately were tapped at by respectful knuckles; orthe places where staircases have been--staircases down whose banisterslately slid little children, laughing. Exposed, humiliated, doomed,the home throws out a hundred pleas to us. And the Pharisaic communitypasses by on the other side of the way, in fear of a falling brick.Down come the walls of the home, as quickly as pickaxes can send them.Down they crumble, piecemeal, into the foundations, and are cartedaway. Soon other walls will be rising--red-brick `residential' walls,more in harmony with the Zeitgeist. None but I pays any heed to theruins. I am their only friend. Me they attract so irresistibly that Ihaunt the door of the hoarding that encloses them, and am frequentlymistaken for the foreman.

A few summers ago, I was watching, with more than usual emotion, therasure of a great edifice at a corner of Hanover Square. There weretwo reasons why this rasure especially affected me. I had known theedifice so well, by sight, ever since I was a small boy, and I hadalways admired it as a fine example of that kind of architecture whichis the most suitable to London's atmosphere. Though I must have passedit thousands of times, I had never passed without an upward smile ofapproval that gaunt and sombre fa‡ade, with its long straight windows,its well-spaced columns, its long straight coping against the Londonsky. My eyes deplored that these noble and familiar things mustperish. For sake of what they had sheltered, my heart deplored thatthey must perish. The falling edifice had not been exactly a home. Ithad been even more than that. It had been a refuge from many homes. Ithad been a club.

Certainly it had not been a particularly distinguished club. Itsdemolition could not have been stayed on the plea that Charles JamesFox had squandered his substance in its card-room, or that LordMelbourne had loved to doze on the bench in its hall. Nothing sublimehad happened in it. No sublime person had belonged to it. Personswithout the vaguest pretensions to sublimity had always, I believe,found quick and easy entrance into it. It had been a large nondescriptaffair. But (to adapt Byron) a club's a club tho' every one's in it.The ceremony of election gives it a cachet which not even the smartesthotel has. And then there is the note-paper, and there are the news-papers, and the cigars at wholesale prices, and the not-to-be-tippedwaiters, and other blessings for mankind. If the members of this clubhad but migrated to some other building, taking their effects andtheir constitution with them, the ruin would have been patheticenough. But alas! the outward wreck was a symbol, a result, of innerdissolution. Through the door of the hoarding the two pillars of thefront door told a sorry tale. Pasted on either of them was a dingybill, bearing the sinister imprimatur of an auctioneer, and offering(in capitals of various sizes) Bedroom Suites (Walnut and Mahogany),Turkey, Indian and Wilton Pile Carpets, Two Full-sized Billiard-Tables, a Remington Type-writer, a Double Door (Fire-Proof), and otherobjects not less useful and delightful. The club, then, had gone tosmash. The members had been disbanded, driven out of this Eden by thefiery sword of the Law, driven back to their homes. Sighing over themarcescibility of human happiness, I peered between the pillars intothe excavated and chaotic hall. The porter's hatch was still there, inthe wall. There it was, wondering why no inquiries were made throughit now, or, may be, why it had not been sold into bondage with thedouble-door and the rest of the fixtures. A melancholy relic of pastglories! I crossed over to the other side of the road, and passed myeye over the whole ruin. The roof, the ceilings, most of the innerwalls, had already fallen. Little remained but the grim, familiarfa‡ade--a thin husk. I noted (that which I had never noted before) twoiron grills in the masonry. Miserable travesties of usefulness,ventilating the open air! Through the gaping windows, against the wallof the next building, I saw in mid-air the greenish Lincrusta Waltonof what I guessed to have been the billiard-room--the billiard-roomthat had boasted two full-sized tables. Above it ran a frieze of whiteand gold. It was interspersed with flat Corinthian columns. Thegilding of the capitals was very fresh, and glittered gaily under thesummer sunbeams.

And hardly a day of the next autumn and winter passed but I was drawnback to the ruin by a kind of lugubrious magnetism. The strangestthing was that the ruin seemed to remain in practically the same stateas when first I had come upon it: the fa‡ade still stood high. Thismight have been due to the proverbial laziness of British workmen, butI did not think it could be. The workmen were always plying theirpick-axes, with apparent gusto and assiduity, along the top of thebuilding; bricks and plaster were always crashing down into the depthsand sending up clouds of dust. I preferred to think the buildingrenewed itself, by some magical process, every night. I preferred tothink it was prepared thus to resist its aggressors for so long a timethat in the end there would be an intervention from other powers.Perhaps from this site no `residential' affair was destined to scrapethe sky? Perhaps that saint to whom the club had dedicated itselfwould reappear, at length, glorious equestrian, to slay the dragonswho had infested and desecrated his premises? I wondered whether hewould then restore the ruins, reinstating the club, and setting it forever on a sound commercial basis, or would leave them just as theywere, a fixed signal to sensibility.

But, when first I saw the poor fa‡ade being pick-axed, I did not`give' it more than a fortnight. I had no feeling but of hopeless aweand pity. The workmen on the coping seemed to me ministers ofinexorable Olympus, executing an Olympian decree. And the buildingseemed to me a live victim, a scapegoat suffering sullenly for sins ithad not committed. To me it seemed to be flinching under everyrhythmic blow of those well-wielded weapons, praying for the hour whensunset should bring it surcease from that daily ordeal. I caughtmyself nodding to it--a nod of sympathy, of hortation to endurance.Immediately, I was ashamed of my lapse into anthropomorphism. I toldmyself that my pity ought to be kept for the real men who had beenfrequenters of the building, who now were waifs. I reviewed thegaping, glassless windows through which they had been wont to watchthe human comedy. There they had stood, puffing their smoke andcracking their jests, and tearing women's reputations to shreds.

Not that I, personally, have ever heard a woman's reputation torn toshreds in a club window. A constant reader of lady-novelists, I havealways been hoping for this excitement, but somehow it has never comemy way. I am beginning to suspect that it never will, and am inclinedto regard it as a figment. Such conversation as I have heard in clubshas been always of a very mild, perfunctory kind. A social club (eventhough it be a club with a definite social character) is a collectionof heterogeneous creatures, and its aim is perfect harmony and good-fellowship. Thus any definite expression of opinion by any member isregarded as dangerous. The ideal clubman is he who looks genial andsays nothing at all. Most Englishmen find little difficulty inconforming with this ideal. They belong to a silent race. Social clubsflourish, therefore, in England. Intelligent foreigners, seeing them,recognise their charm, and envy us them, and try to reproduce them athome. But the Continent is too loquacious. On it social clubs quicklydegenerate into bear-gardens, and the basic ideal of good-fellowshipgoes by the board. In Paris, Petersburg, Vienna, the only social clubsthat prosper are those which are devoted to games of chance--thosewhich induce silence by artificial means. Were I a foreign visitor,taking cursory glances, I should doubtless be delighted with the clubsof London. Had I the honour to be an Englishman, I should doubtlesslove them. But being a foreign resident, I am somewhat oppressed bythem. I crave in them a little freedom of speech, even though suchfreedom were their ruin. I long for their silence to be broken hereand there, even though such breakage broke them with it. It is notenough for me to hear a hushed exchange of mild jokes about theweather, or of comparisons between what the Times says and what theStandard says. I pine for a little vivacity, a little boldness, alittle variety, a few gestures. A London club, as it is conducted,seems to me very like a catacomb. It is tolerable so long as you donot actually belong to it. But when you do belong to it, when you haveoutlived the fleeting gratification at having been elected, whenyou...but I ought not to have fallen into the second person plural.You, readers, are free-born Englishmen. These clubs `come natural' toyou. You love them. To them you slip eagerly from your homes. As forme, poor alien, had I been a member of the club whose demolition hasbeen my theme, I should have grieved for it not one whit the morebitterly. Indeed, my tears would have been a trifle less salt. It wasmy detachment that enabled me to be so prodigal of pity.

The poor waifs! Long did I stand, in the sunshine of that day whenfirst I saw the ruin, wondering and distressed, ruthful, indignantthat such things should be. I forgot on what errand I had come out. Irecalled it. Once or twice I walked away, bent on its fulfilment. ButI could not proceed further than a few yards. I halted, looked over myshoulder, was drawn back to the spot, drawn by the crude, insistentanthem of the pick-axes. The sun slanted towards Notting Hill. Still Iloitered, spellbound... I was aware of some one at my side, some oneasking me a question. `I beg your pardon?' I said. The stranger was atall man, bronzed and bearded. He repeated his question. In answer, Ipointed silently to the ruin. `That?' he gasped. He stared vacantly. Isaw that his face had become pale under its sunburn. He looked fromthe ruin to me. `You're not joking with me?' he said thickly. Iassured him that I was not. I assured him that this was indeed theclub to which he had asked to be directed. `But,' he stammered, `but--but--' `You were a member?' I suggested. `I am a member,' he cried.`And what's more, I'm going to write to the Committee.' I suggestedthat there was one fatal objection to such a course. I spoke to himcalmly, soothed him with words of reason, elicited from him, little bylittle, his sad story. It appeared that he had been a member of theclub for ten years, but had never (except once, as a guest) beeninside it. He had been elected on the very day on which (by compulsionof his father) he set sail for Australia. He was a mere boy at thetime. Bitterly he hated leaving old England; nor did he ever find thelife of a squatter congenial. The one thing which enabled him toendure those ten years of unpleasant exile was the knowledge that hewas a member of a London club. Year by year, it was a keen pleasure tohim to send his annual subscription. It kept him in touch withcivilisation, in touch with Home. He loved to know that when, atlength, he found himself once again in the city of his birth he wouldhave a firm foothold on sociability. The friends of his youth mightdie, or might forget him. But, as member of a club, he would findsubstitutes for them in less than no time. Herding bullocks, all daylong, on the arid plains of Central Australia, he used to keep up hisspirits by thinking of that first whisky-and-soda which he would orderfrom a respectful waiter as he entered his club. All night long,wrapped in his blanket beneath the stars, he used to dream of thatdrink to come, that first symbol of an unlost grip on civilisation...He had arrived in London this very afternoon. Depositing his luggageat an hotel, he had come straight to his club. `And now...' He filledup his aposiopesis with an uncouth gesture, signifying `I may as wellget back to Australia.'

I was on the point of offering to take him to my own club and give himhis first whisky-and-soda therein. But I refrained. The sight of anextant club might have maddened the man. It certainly was very hardfor him, to have belonged to a club for ten years, to have loved it sopassionately from such a distance, and then to find himself destinednever to cross its threshold. Why, after all, should he not cross itsthreshold? I asked him if he would like to. `What,' he growled, `wouldbe the good?' I appealed, not in vain, to the imaginative side of hisnature. I went to the door of the hoarding, and explained matters tothe foreman; and presently, nodding to me solemnly, he passed with theforeman through the gap between the doorposts. I saw him crossing theexcavated hall, crossing it along a plank, slowly and cautiously. Hisattitude was very like Blondin's, but it had a certain tragic dignitywhich Blondin's lacked. And that was the last I saw of him. I hailed acab and drove away. What became of the poor fellow I do not know.Often as I returned to the ruin, and long as I loitered by it, him Inever saw again. Perhaps he really did go straight back to Australia.Or perhaps he induced the workmen to bury him alive in thefoundations. His fate, whatever it was, haunts me.

`273'

This is an age of prescriptions. Morning after morning, from the back-page of your newspaper, quick and uncostly cures for every human illthrust themselves wildly on you. The age of miracles is not past. ButI would raise no false hopes of myself. I am no thaumaturgist. Doyou awake with a sinking sensation in the stomach? Have you lost thepower of assimilating food? Are you oppressed with an indescribablelassitude? Can you no longer follow the simplest train of thought? Areyou troubled throughout the night with a hacking cough? Are you--infine, are you but a tissue of all the most painful symptoms of all themost malignant maladies ancient and modern? If so, skip this essay,and try Somebody's Elixir. The cure that I offer is but a cure foroverwrought nerves--a substitute for the ordinary `rest-cure.' Nor isit absurdly cheap. Nor is it instant. It will take a week or so ofyour time. But then, the `rest-cure' takes at least a month. The scaleof payment for board and lodging may be, per diem, hardly lower thanin the `rest-cure'; but you will save all but a pound or so of thevery heavy fees that you would have to pay to your doctor and yournurse (or nurses). And certainly, my cure is the more pleasant of thetwo. My patient does not have to cease from life. He is not undressedand tucked into bed and forbidden to stir hand or foot during hiswhole term. He is not forbidden to receive letters, or to read books,or to look on any face but his nurse's (or nurses'). Nor, above all,is he condemned to the loathsome necessity of eating so much food asto make him dread the sight of food. Doubtless, the grim, inexorableprocess of the `rest-cure' is very good for him who is strong enoughand brave enough to bear it, and rich enough to pay for it. I addressmyself to the frailer, cowardlier, needier man. Instead of ceasingfrom life, and entering purgatory, he need but essay a variation inlife. He need but go and stay by himself in one of those vast modernhotels which abound along the South and East coasts.

You are disappointed? All simple ideas are disappointing. And all goodcures spring from simple ideas.

The right method of treating overwrought nerves is to get the patientaway from himself--to make a new man of him; and this trick can bedone only by switching him off from his usual environment, his usualhabits. The ordinary rest-cure, by its very harshness, intensifies aman's personality at first, drives him miserably within himself; andonly by its long duration does it gradually wear him down and buildhim up anew. There is no harshness in the vast hotels which I haverecommended. You may eat there as little as you like, especially ifyou are en pension. Letters may be forwarded to you there; though,unless your case is a very mild one, I would advise you not to leaveyour address at home. There are reading-rooms where you can see allthe newspapers; though I advise you to ignore them. You suffer underno sense of tyranny. And yet, no sooner have you signed your name inthe visitors' book, and had your bedroom allotted to you, than youfeel that you have surrendered yourself irrepleviably. It is notnecessary to this illusion that you should pass under an assumed name,unless you happen to be a very eminent actor, or cricketer, or otheridol of the nation, whose presence would flutter the young persons atthe bureau. If your nervous breakdown be (as it more likely is) due tomerely intellectual distinction, these young persons will mete out toyou no more than the bright callous civility which they mete outimpartially to all (but those few) who come before them. To them youwill be a number, and to yourself you will have suddenly become anumber--the number graven on the huge brass label that dependsclanking from the key put into the hand of the summoned chambermaid.You are merely (let us say) 273.

Up you go in the lift, realising, as for the first time, yourinsignificance in infinity, and rather proud to be even a number. Yourecognise your double on the door that has been unlocked for you. Noprisoner, clapped into his cell, could feel less personal, lessimportant. A notice on the wall, politely requesting you to leave yourkey at the bureau (as though you were strong enough or capaciousenough to carry it about with you) comes as a pleasant reminder ofyour freedom. You remember joyously that you are even free fromyourself. You have begun a new life, have forgotten the old. Thismantelpiece, so strangely and brightly bare of photographs or`knickknacks,' is meaning in its meaninglessness. And these blank,fresh walls, that you have never seen, and that never were seen by anyone whom you know...their pattern is of poppies and mandragora,surely. Poppies and mandragora are woven, too, on the brand-newAxminster beneath your elastic step. `Come in!' A porter bears in yourtrunk, deposits it on a trestle at the foot of the bed, unstraps it,leaves you alone with it. It seems to be trying to remind you of some-thing or other. You do not listen. You laugh as you open it. You knowthat if you examined these shirts you would find them marked `273.'Before dressing for dinner, you take a hot bath. There are patenttaps, some for fresh water, others for sea water. You hesitate. Yetyou know that whichever you touch will effuse but the water of Lethe,after all. You dress before your fire. The coals have burnt now to alovely glow. Once and again, you eye them suspiciously. But no, thereare no faces in them. All's well.

Sleek and fresh, you sit down to dinner in the `Grande Salle a`Manger.' Graven on your wine-glasses, emblazoned on your soup-plate,are the armorial bearings of the company that shelters you. TheCollege of Arms might sneer at them, be down on them, but to you theyare a joy, in their grand lack of links with history. They are asympathetic symbol of your own newness, your own impersonality. Youglance down the endless menu. It has been composed for a community.None of your favourite dishes (you once had favourite dishes) appearsin it, thank heaven! You will work your way through it, steadily,unquestioningly, gladly, with a communal palate. And the wine? Allwines are alike here, surely. You scour the list vaguely, and order apint of 273. Your eye roves over the adjacent tables.

You behold a galaxy of folk evidently born, like yourself, anew. Some,like yourself, are solitary. Others are with wives, with children--butwith new wives, new children. The associations of home have beenforgotten, even though home's actual appendages be here. The membersof the little domestic circles are using company manners. They areactually making conversation, `breaking the ice.' They are new here toone another. They are new to themselves. How much newer to you! Youcannot `place' them. That paterfamilias with the red moustache--is hea soldier, a solicitor, a stockbroker, what? You play vaguely, vainly,at the game of attributions, while the little orchestra in yonderbower of artificial palm-trees plays new, or seemingly new, cake-walks. Who are they, these minstrels in the shadow? They seem not tobe the Red Hungarians, nor the Blue, nor the Hungarians of any othercolour of the spectrum. You set them down as the ColourlessHungarians, and resume your study of the tables. They fascinate you,these your fellow-diners. You fascinate them, doubtless. They,doubtless, are cudgelling their brains to `spot' your state in life--your past, which now has escaped you. Next day, some of them are gone;and you miss them, almost bitterly. But others succeed them, not lessdetached and enigmatic than they. You must never speak to one of them.You must never lapse into those casual acquaintances of the `lounge'or the smoking-room. Nor is it hard to avoid them. No Englishman, howgregarious and garrulous soever, will dare address another Englishmanin whose eye is no spark of invitation. There must be no such spark inyours. Silence is part of the cure for you, and a very important part.It is mainly through unaccustomed silence that your nerves are madetrim again. Usually, you are giving out in talk all that you receivethrough your senses of perception. Keep silence now. Its gold willaccumulate in you at compound interest. You will realise the joy ofbeing full of reflections and ideas. You will begin to hoard themproudly, like a miser. You will gloat over your own cleverness--you,who but a few days since, were feeling so stupid. Solitude in a crowd,silence among chatterboxes--these are the best ministers to a minddiseased. And with the restoration of the mind, the body will berestored too. You, who were physically so limp and pallid, will be aruddy Hercules now. And when, at the moment of departure, you passthrough the hall, shyly distributing to the servants that largessewhich is so slight in comparison with what your doctor and nurse (ornurses) would have levied on you, you will feel that you are more thanfit to resume that burden of personality whereunder you had sunk. Youwill be victoriously yourself again.

Yet I think you will look back a little wistfully on the period ofyour obliteration. People--for people are very nice, really, most ofthem--will tell you that they have missed you. You will reply that youdid not miss yourself. And you will go the more strenuously to yourwork and pleasure, so as to have the sooner an excuse for a goodriddance.

A STUDY IN DEJECTION

Riderless the horse was, and with none to hold his bridle. But hewaited patiently, submissively, there where I saw him, at the shabbycorner of a certain shabby little street in Chelsea. `My beautiful, mybeautiful, thou standest meekly by,' sang Mrs. Norton of her Arabsteed, `with thy proudly-arched and glossy neck, thy dark and fieryeye.' Catching the eye of this other horse, I saw that such fire asmight once have blazed there had long smouldered away. Chestnut thoughhe was, he had no mettle. His chestnut coat was all dull and rough,unkempt as that of an inferior cab-horse. Of his once luxuriant manethere were but a few poor tufts now. His saddle was torn and weather-stained. The one stirrup that dangled therefrom was red with rust.

I never saw in any creature a look of such unutterable dejection.Dejection, in the most literal sense of the word, indeed was his. Hehad been cast down. He had fallen from higher and happier things. Withhis `arched neck,' and with other points which not neglect nor ill-usage could rob of their old grace, he had kept something of hisfallen day about him. In the window of the little shop outside whichhe stood were things that seemed to match him--things appealing to thesense that he appealed to. A tarnished French mirror, a strip of fadedcarpet, some rows of battered, tattered books, a few cups and saucersthat had erst been riveted and erst been dusted--all these, in agallimaufry of other languid odds and ends, seen through this mud-splashed window, silently echoed the silent misery of the horse. Theywere remembering Zion. They had been beautiful once, and expensive,and well cared for, and admired, and coveted. And now...

They had, at least, the consolation of being indoors. Public laughing-stock though they were, they had a barrier of glass between themselvesand the irreverent world. To be warm and dry, too, was something.Piteous, they could yet afford to pity the horse. He was moreludicrously, more painfully, misplaced than they. A real blood-horsethat has done his work is rightly left in the open air--turned outinto some sweet meadow or paddock. It would be cruel to make him spendhis declining years inside a house, where no grass is. Is it lesscruel that a fine old rocking-horse should be thrust from the nurseryout into the open air, upon the pavement?

Perhaps some child had just given the horse a contemptuous shove inpassing. For he was rocking gently when I chanced to see him. Nor didhe cease to rock, with a slight creak upon the pavement, so long as Iwatched him. A particularly black and bitter north wind was blowinground the corner of the street. Perhaps it was this that kept thehorse in motion. Boreas himself, invisible to my mortal eyes, may havebeen astride the saddle, lashing the tired old horse to this futileactivity. But no, I think rather that the poor thing was rocking ofhis own accord, rocking to attract my attention. He saw in me apossible purchaser. He wanted to show me that he was still sound inwind and limb. Had I a small son at home? If so, here was the verymount for him. None of your frisky, showy, first-hand young brutes, onwhich no fond parent ought to risk his offspring's bones; but a sound,steady-going, well-mannered old hack with never a spark of vice inhim! Such was the message that I read in the glassy eye fixed on me.The nostril of faded scarlet seemed for a moment to dilate and quiver.At last, at last, was some one going to inquire his price?

Once upon a time, in a far-off fashionable toy-shop, his price hadbeen prohibitive; and he, the central attraction behind the gleamingshop-window, had plumed himself on his expensiveness. He had been inno hurry to be bought. It had seemed to him a good thing to standthere motionless, majestic, day after day, far beyond the reach ofaverage purses, and having in his mien something of the frigidnobility of the horses on the Parthenon frieze, with nothing at all oftheir unreality. A coat of real chestnut hair, glossy, glorious! Fromend to end of the Parthenon frieze not one of the horses had that.>From end to end of the toy-shop that exhibited him not one of thehorses was thus graced. Their flanks were mere wood, painted white,with arbitrary blotches of grey here and there. Miserable creatures!It was difficult to believe that they had souls. No wonder they werecheap, and `went off,' as the shopman said, so quickly, whilst hestayed grandly on, cynosure of eyes that dared not hope for him. Intobondage they went off, those others, and would be worked to death,doubtless, by brutal little boys.

When, one fine day, a lady was actually not shocked by the pricedemanded for him, his pride was hurt. And when, that evening, he waspacked in brown paper and hoisted to the roof of a four-wheeler, hefaced the future fiercely. Who was this lady that her child shoulddare bestride him? With a biblical `ha, ha,' he vowed that the childshould not stay long in saddle: he must be thrown--badly--even thoughit was his seventh birthday. But this wicked intention vanished whilethe child danced around him in joy and wonder. Never yet had so manycompliments been showered on him. Here, surely, was more the manner ofa slave than of a master. And how lightly the child rode him, withnever a tug or a kick! And oh, how splendid it was to be flying thusthrough the air! Horses were made to be ridden; and he had neverbefore savoured the true joy of life, for he had never known his ownstrength and fleetness. Forward! Backward! Faster, faster! To floor!To ceiling! Regiments of leaden soldiers watched his wild career.Noah's quiet sedentary beasts gaped up at him in wonderment--as tinyto him as the gaping cows in the fields are to you when you pass by inan express train. This was life indeed! He remembered Katafalto--remembered Eclipse and the rest nowhere. Aye, thought he, and eventhus must Black Bess have rejoiced along the road to York. AndBucephalus, skimming under Alexander the plains of Asia, must have hadjust this glorious sense of freedom. Only less so! Not Pegasus himselfcan have flown more swiftly. Pegasus, at last, became a constellationin the sky. `Some day,' reflected the rocking-horse, when the ride wasover, `I, too, shall die; and five stars will appear on the nurseryceiling.'

Alas for the vanity of equine ambition! I wonder by what stages thispoor beast came down in the world. Did the little boy's father gobankrupt, leaving it to be sold in a `lot' with the other toys? Or wasit merely given away, when the little boy grew up, to a poor butprocreative relation, who anon became poorer? I should like to thinkthat it had been mourned. But I fear that whatever mourning there mayhave been for it must have been long ago discarded. The creature didnot look as if it had been ridden in any recent decade. It looked asif it had almost abandoned the hope of ever being ridden again. It wasbut hoping against hope now, as it stood rocking there in the bleaktwilight. Bright warm nurseries were for younger, happier horses.Still it went on rocking, to show me that it could rock.

The more sentimental a man is, the less is he helpful; the more lothis he to cancel the cause of his emotion. I did not buy the horse.

A few days later, passing that way, I wished to renew my emotion; butlo! the horse was gone. Had some finer person than I bought it?--towedit to the haven where it would be? Likelier, it had but been relegatedto some mirky recess of the shop... I hope it has room to rock there.

A PATHETIC IMPOSTURE

Lord Rosebery once annoyed the Press by declaring that his idealnewspaper was one which should give its news without comment.Doubtless he was thinking of the commonweal. Yet a plea for nocomments might be made, with equal force, in behalf of thecommentators themselves. Occupations that are injurious to the personsengaged in them ought not to be encouraged. The writing of `leaders'and `notes' is one of these occupations. The practice of it, more thanof any other, depends on, and fosters hypocrisy, worst of vices. In asense, every kind of writing is hypocritical. It has to be done withan air of gusto, though no one ever yet enjoyed the act of writing.Even a man with a specific gift for writing, with much to express,with perfect freedom in choice of subject and manner of expression,with indefinite leisure, does not write with real gusto. But in himthe pretence is justified: he has enjoyed thinking out his subject, hewill delight in his work when it is done. Very different is thepretence of one who writes at top-speed, on a set subject, what hethinks the editor thinks the proprietor thinks the public thinks nice.If he happen to have a talent for writing, his work will be but themore painful, and his hypocrisy the greater. The chances are, though,that the talent has already been sucked out of him by Journalism, thatvampire. To her, too, he will have forfeited any fervour he may havehad, any learning, any gaiety. How can he, the jaded interpreter, holdany opinion, feel any enthusiasm?--without leisure, keep his mind incultivation?--be sprightly to order, at unearthly hours in a whir-r-ring office? To order! Yes, sprightliness is compulsory there; so areweightiness, and fervour, and erudition. He must seem to abound inthese advantages, or another man will take his place. He must disguisehimself at all costs. But disguises are not easy to make; they requiretime and care, which he cannot afford. So he must snatch up ready-madedisguises--unhook them, rather. He must know all the cant-phrases, thecant-references. There are very, very many of them, and belike it ishard to keep them all at one's finger-tips. But, at least, there is nodifficulty in collecting them. Plod through the `leaders' and `notes'in half-a-dozen of the daily papers, and you will bag whole coveys ofthem.

Most of the morning papers still devote much space to the old-fashioned kind of `leader,' in which the pretence is of weightiness,rather than of fervour, sprightliness, or erudition. The effect ofweightiness is obtained simply by a stupendous disproportion oflanguage to sense. The longest and most emphatic words are used forthe simplest and most trivial statements, and they are always soelaborately qualified as to leave the reader with a vague impressionthat a very difficult matter, which he himself cannot make head ortail of, has been dealt with in a very judicial and exemplary manner.

A leader-writer would not, for instance, say--

Lord Rosebery has made a paradox.

He would say:--

Lord Rosebery

whether intentionally or otherwise, we leave our readers to decide,or, with seeming conviction,or, doubtless giving rein to the playful humour which ischaracteristic of him,

has

expressed a sentiment,or, taken on himself to enunciate a theory,or, made himself responsible for a dictum,

which,

we venture to assert,or, we have little hesitation in declaring,or, we may be pardoned for thinking,or, we may say without fear of contradiction,

is

nearly akin toor, not very far removed from

the paradoxical.

But I will not examine further the trick of weightiness--it takes uptoo much of my space. Besides, these long `leaders' are a meresurvival, and will soon disappear altogether. The `notes' are thecharacteristic feature of the modern newspaper, and it is in them thatthe modern journalist displays his fervour, sprightliness, anderudition. `Note'-writing, like chess, has certain recognisedopenings, e.g.:--

There is no new thing under the sun.It is always the unexpected that happens.Nature, as we know, abhors a vacuum.The late Lord Coleridge once electrified his court by inquiring `Whois Connie Gilchrist?'

And here are some favourite methods of conclusion:--

A mad world, my masters!'Tis true 'tis pity, and pity 'tis 'tis true.There is much virtue in that `if.'But that, as Mr. Kipling would say, is another story.Si non e` vero, etc.

or (lighter style)

We fancy we recognise here the hand of Mr. Benjamin Trovato.

Not less inevitable are such parallelisms as:--

Like Topsy, perhaps it `growed.'Like the late Lord Beaconsfield on a famous occasion, `on the side ofthe angels.'Like Brer Rabbit, `To lie low and say nuffin.'Like Oliver Twist, `To ask for more.'Like Sam Weller's knowledge of London, `extensive and peculiar.'Like Napoleon, a believer in `the big battalions.'

A melancholy catalogue, is it not? But it is less melancholy for youwho read it here, than for them whose existence depends on it, whodraw from it a desperate means of seeming to accomplish what isimpossible. And yet these are the men who shrank in horror from LordRosebery's merciful idea. They ought to be saved despite themselves.Might not a short Act of Parliament be passed, making all comment indaily newspapers illegal? In a way, of course, it would be hard on thecommentators. Having lost the power of independent thought, havingsunk into a state of chronic dulness, apathy and insincerity, theycould hardly, be expected to succeed in any of the ordinary ways oflife. They could not compete with their fellow-creatures; no door butwould be bolted if they knocked on it. What would become of them?Probably they would have to perish in what they would call `what thelate Lord Goschen would have called "splendid isolation."' But such anend were sweeter, I suggest to them, than the life they are leading.

THE DECLINE OF THE GRACES

Have you read The Young Lady's Book? You have had plenty of time to doso, for it was published in 1829. It was described by the twoanonymous Gentlewomen who compiled it as `A Manual for ElegantRecreations, Exercises, and Pursuits.' You wonder they had nothingbetter to think of? You suspect them of having been triflers? Theywere not, believe me. They were careful to explain, at the outset,that the Virtues of Character were what a young lady should mostassiduously cultivate. They, in their day, labouring under the shadowof the eighteenth century, had somehow in themselves that high moralfervour which marks the opening of the twentieth century, and is saidto have come in with Mr. George Bernard Shaw. But, unlike us, theywere not concerned wholly with the inward and spiritual side of life.They cared for the material surface, too. They were learned in thefrills and furbelows of things. They gave, indeed, a whole chapter to`Embroidery.' Another they gave to `Archery,' another to `The Aviary,'another to `The Escrutoire.' Young ladies do not now keep birds, norshoot with bow and arrow; but they do still, in some measure, writeletters; and so, for sake of historical comparison, let me give you aglance at `The Escrutoire.' It is not light reading.

`For careless scrawls ye boast of no pretence;Fair Russell wrote, as well as spoke, with sense.'

Thus is the chapter headed, with a delightful little wood engraving of`Fair Russell,' looking pre-eminently sensible, at her desk, toprepare the reader for the imminent welter of rules for `decorouscomposition.' Not that pedantry is approved. `Ease and simplicity, aneven flow of unlaboured diction, and an artless arrangement of obvioussentiments' is the ideal to be striven for. `A metaphor may be usedwith advantage' by any young lady, but only `if it occur naturally.'And `allusions are elegant,' but only `when introduced with ease, andwhen they are well understood by those to whom they are addressed.'`An antithesis renders a passage piquant'; but the dire results of atoo-frequent indulgence in it are relentlessly set forth. Pages andpages are devoted to a minute survey of the pit-falls of punctuation.But when the young lady of that period had skirted all these, and hadobserved all the manifold rules of caligraphy that were here laid downfor her, she was not, even then, out of the wood. Very special stresswas laid on `the use of the seal.' Bitter scorn was poured on youngladies who misused the seal. `It is a habit of some to thrust the waxinto the flame of the candle, and the moment a morsel of it is melted,to daub it on the paper; and when an unsightly mass is gatheredtogether, to pass the seal over the tongue with ridiculous haste--press it with all the strength which the sealing party possesses--andthe result is, an impression which raises a blush on her cheek.'

Well! The young ladies of that day were ever expected to exhibitsensibility, and used to blush, just as they wept or fainted, for veryslight causes. Their tears and their swoons did not necessarilybetoken much grief or agitation; nor did a rush of colour to the cheekmean necessarily that they were overwhelmed with shame. To exhibitvarious emotions in the drawing-room was one of the Elegant Exercisesin which these young ladies were drilled thoroughly. And their habitof simulation was so rooted in sense of duty that it merged intosincerity. If a young lady did not swoon at the breakfast-table whenher Papa read aloud from The Times that the Duke of Wellington wassuffering from a slight chill, the chances were that she would swoonquite unaffectedly when she realised her omission. Even so, we may besure that a young lady whose cheek burned not at sight of the lettershe had sealed untidily--`unworthily' the Manual calls it--would anonbe blushing for her shamelessness. Such a thing as the blurring of thefamily crest, or as the pollution of the profile of Pallas Athene withthe smoke of the taper, was hardly, indeed, one of those `very slightcauses' to which I have referred. The Georgian young lady was imbuedthrough and through with the sense that it was her duty to begracefully efficient in whatsoever she set her hand to. To the younglady of to-day, belike, she will seem accordingly ridiculous--seempoor-spirited, and a pettifogger. True, she set her hand to nograndiose tasks. She was not allowed to become a hospital nurse, forexample, or an actress. The young lady of to-day, when she hears inherself a `vocation' for tending the sick, would willingly, without aninstant's preparation, assume responsibility for the lives of a wholeward at St. Thomas's. This responsibility is not, however, thrust onher. She has to submit to a long and tedious course of training beforeshe may do so much as smooth a pillow. The boards of the theatre areless jealously hedged in than those of the hospital. If our young ladyhave a wealthy father, and retain her schoolroom faculty for learningpoetry by heart, there is no power on earth to prevent her from makingher de'but, somewhere, as Juliet--if she be so inclined; and such isusually her inclination. That her voice is untrained, that she cannotscan blank-verse, that she cannot gesticulate with grace andpropriety, nor move with propriety and grace across the stage, mattersnot a little bit--to our young lady. `Feeling,' she will say, `iseverything'; and, of course, she, at the age of eighteen, has morefeeling than Juliet, that `flapper,' could have had. All those otherthings--those little technical tricks--`can be picked up,' or `willcome.' But no; I misrepresent our young lady. If she be conscious thatthere are such tricks to be played, she despises them. When, later,she finds the need to learn them, she still despises them. It seems toher ridiculous that one should not speak and comport oneself asartlessly on the stage as one does off it. The notion of speaking orcomporting oneself with conscious art in real life would seem to herquite monstrous. It would puzzle her as much as her grandmother wouldhave been puzzled by the contrary notion.

Personally, I range myself on the grandmother's side. I take my standshoulder to shoulder with the Graces. On the banner that I wave isembroidered a device of prunes and prisms.

I am no blind fanatic, however. I admit that artlessness is a charmingidea. I admit that it is sometimes charming as a reality. I applaud it(all the more heartily because it is rare) in children. But then,children, like the young of all animals whatsoever, have a naturalgrace. As a rule, they begin to show it in their third year, and tolose it in their ninth. Within that span of six years they can becharming without intention; and their so frequent failure in charm isdue to their voluntary or enforced imitation of the ways of theirelders. In Georgian and Early Victorian days the imitation was alwaysenforced. Grown-up people had good manners, and wished to see themreflected in the young. Nowadays, the imitation is always voluntary.Grown-up people have no manners at all; whereas they certainly have avery keen taste for the intrinsic charm of children. They wishchildren to be perfectly natural. That is (aesthetically at least) anadmirable wish. My complaint against these grown-up people is, thatthey themselves, whom time has robbed of their natural grace as surelyas it robs the other animals, are content to be perfectly natural.This contentment I deplore, and am keen to disturb.

I except from my indictment any young lady who may read these words. Iwill assume that she differs from the rest of the human race, and hasnot, never had, anything to learn in the art of conversing prettily,of entering or leaving a room or a vehicle gracefully, of writingappropriate letters, et patati et patata. I will assume that all theseaccomplishments came naturally to her. She will now be in a mood toaccept my proposition that of her contemporaries none seems to havebeen so lucky as herself. She will agree with me that other girls needtraining. She will not deny that grace in the little affairs of lifeis a thing which has to be learned. Some girls have a far greateraptitude for learning it than others; but, with one exception, nogirls have it in them from the outset. It is a not less complicatedthing than is the art of acting, or of nursing the sick, and needs forthe acquirement of it a not less laborious preparation.

Is it worth the trouble? Certainly the trouble is not taken. The`finishing school,' wherein young ladies were taught to be graceful,is a thing of the past. It must have been a dismal place; but thedismalness of it--the strain of it--was the measure of itsindispensability. There I beg the question. Is grace itselfindispensable? Certainly, it has been dispensed with. It isn'treckoned with. To sit perfectly mute `in company,' or to chatter on atthe top of one's voice; to shriek with laughter; to fling oneself intoa room and dash oneself out of it; to collapse on chairs or sofas; tosprawl across tables; to slam doors; to write, without punctuation,notes that only an expert in handwriting could read, and only anexpert in mis-spelling could understand; to hustle, to bounce, to gostraight ahead--to be, let us say, perfectly natural in the midst ofan artificial civilisation, is an ideal which the young ladies of to-day are neither publicly nor privately discouraged from cherishing.The word `cherishing' implies a softness of which they are not guilty.I hasten to substitute `pursuing.' If these young ladies were not inthe aforesaid midst of an artificial civilisation, I should be thelast to discourage their pursuit. If they were Amazons, for example,spending their lives beneath the sky, in tilth of stubborn fields, andin armed conflict with fierce men, it would be unreasonable to expectof them any sacrifice to the Graces. But they are exposed to no suchhardships. They have a really very comfortable sort of life. They arenot expected to be useful. (I am writing all the time, of course,about the young ladies in the affluent classes.) And it seems to methat they, in payment of their debt to Fate, ought to occupy the timethat is on their hands by becoming ornamental, and increasing theworld's store of beauty. In a sense, certainly, they are ornamental.It is a strange fact, and an ironic, that they spend quite five timesthe annual amount that was spent by their grandmothers on personaladornment. If they can afford it, well and good: let us have nosumptuary law. But plenty of pretty dresses will not suffice. Prettymanners are needed with them, and are prettier than they.

I had forgotten men. Every defect that I had noted in the modern youngwoman is not less notable in the modern young man. Briefly, he is aboor. If it is true that `manners makyth man,' one doubts whether theBritish race can be perpetuated. The young Englishman of to-day isinferior to savages and to beasts of the field in that they are eagerto show themselves in an agreeable and seductive light to the femalesof their kind, whilst he regards any such effort as beneath hisdignity. Not that he cultivates dignity in demeanour. He merelyslouches. Unlike his feminine counterpart, he lets his raiment matchhis manners. Observe him any afternoon, as he passes down Piccadilly,sullenly, with his shoulders humped, and his hat clapped to the backof his head, and his cigarette dangling almost vertically from hislips. It seems only appropriate that his hat is a billy-cock, and hisshirt a flannel one, and that his boots are brown ones. Thus attired,he is on his way to pay a visit of ceremony to some house at which hehas recently dined. No; that is the sort of visit he never pays. (Imust confess I don't myself.) But one remembers the time when no self-respecting youth would have shown himself in Piccadilly without thevesture appropriate to that august highway. Nowadays there is no carefor appearances. Comfort is the one aim. Any care for appearances isregarded rather as a sign of effeminacy. Yet never, in any other ageof the world's history, has it been regarded so. Indeed, elaboratedressing used to be deemed by philosophers an outcome of the sex-instinct. It was supposed that men dressed themselves finely in orderto attract the admiration of women, just as peacocks spread theirplumage with a similar purpose. Nor do I jettison the old theory. Thedeclension of masculine attire in England began soon after the timewhen statistics were beginning to show the great numericalpreponderance of women over men; and is it fanciful to trace the onefact to the other? Surely not. I do not say that either sex isattracted to the other by elaborate attire. But I believe that eachsex, consciously or unconsciously, uses this elaboration for this verypurpose. Thus the over-dressed girl of to-day and the ill-dressedyouth are but symbols of the balance of our population. The one ispleading, the other scorning. `Take me!' is the message borne by thefurs and the pearls and the old lace. `I'll see about that when I'vehad a look round!' is the not pretty answer conveyed by the billy-cockand the flannel shirt.

I dare say that fine manners, like fine clothes, are one of thestratagems of sex. This theory squares at once with the modern youngman's lack of manners. But how about the modern young woman's not lessobvious lack? Well, the theory will square with that, too. The modernyoung woman's gracelessness may be due to her conviction that men likea girl to be thoroughly natural. She knows that they have a very highopinion of themselves; and what, thinks she, more natural than thatthey should esteem her in proportion to her power of reproducing thequalities that are most salient in themselves? Men, she perceives, areclumsy, and talk loud, and have no drawing-room accomplishments, andare rude; and she proceeds to model herself on them. Let us not blameher. Let us blame rather her parents or guardians, who, though theywell know that a masculine girl attracts no man, leave her to thedevices of her own inexperience. Girls ought not to be allowed, asthey are, to run wild. So soon as they have lost the natural grace ofchildhood, they should be initiated into that course of artificialtraining through which their grandmothers passed before them, and invirtue of which their grandmothers were pleasing. This will not, ofcourse, ensure husbands for them all; but it will certainly tend toincrease the number of marriages. Nor is it primarily for thatsociological reason that I plead for a return to the old system ofeducation. I plead for it, first and last, on aesthetic grounds. Letthe Graces be cultivated for their own sweet sake.

The difficulty is how to begin. The mothers of the rising generationwere brought up in the unregenerate way. Their scraps of oraltradition will need to be supplemented by much research. I advise themto start their quest by reading The Young Lady's Book. Exactly theright spirit is therein enshrined, though of the substance there ismuch that could not be well applied to our own day. That chapter on`The Escrutoire,' for example, belongs to a day that cannot berecalled. We can get rid of bad manners, but we cannot substitute theSedan-chair for the motor-car; and the penny post, with telephones andtelegrams, has, in our own beautiful phrase, `come to stay,' and haselbowed the art of letter-writing irrevocably from among us. But notesare still written; and there is no reason why they should not bewritten well. Has the mantle of those anonymous gentlewomen who wroteThe Young Lady's Book fallen on no one? Will no one revise that`Manual of Elegant Recreations, Exercises, and Pursuits,' adapting itto present needs?... A few hints as to Deportment in the Motor-Car;the exact Angle whereat to hold the Receiver of a Telephone, and theexact Key wherein to pitch the Voice; the Conduct of a Cigarette... Isee a wide and golden vista.

WHISTLER'S WRITING

No book-lover, I. Give me an uninterrupted view of my fellow-creatures. The most tedious of them pleases me better than the bestbook. You see, I admit that some of them are tedious. I do not deemalien from myself nothing that is human: I discriminate my fellow-creatures according to their contents. And in that respect I am notmore different in my way from the true humanitarian than from the truebibliophile in his. To him the content of a book matters not at all.He loves books because they are books, and discriminates them only bythe irrelevant standard of their rarity. A rare book is not less dearto him because it is unreadable, even as to the snob a dull duke is asgood as a bright one. Indeed, why should he bother about readableness?He doesn't want to read. `Uncut edges' for him, when he can get them;and, even when he can't, the notion of reading a rare edition wouldseem to him quite uncouth and preposterous The aforesaid snob would assoon question His Grace about the state of His Grace's soul. I, on theother hand, whenever human company is denied me, have often a desireto read. Reading, I prefer cut edges, because a paper-knife is one ofthe things that have the gift of invisibility whenever they arewanted; and because one's thumb, in prising open the pages, so oftenaffects the text. Many volumes have I thus mutilated, and I hope thatin the sale-rooms of a sentimental posterity they may fetch higherprices than their duly uncut duplicates. So long as my thumb tattersmerely the margin, I am quite equanimous. If I were reading a FirstFolio Shakespeare by my fireside, and if the matchbox were ever solittle beyond my reach, I vow I would light my cigarette with a spillmade from the margin of whatever page I were reading. I am neat,scrupulously neat, in regard to the things I care about; but a book,as a book, is not one of these things.

Of course, a book may happen to be in itself a beautiful object. Sucha book I treat tenderly, as one would a flower. And such a book is, inits brown-papered boards, whereon gleam little gilt italics and alittle gilt butterfly, Whistler's Gentle Art of Making Enemies. Ithappens to be also a book which I have read again and again--a bookthat has often travelled with me. Yet its cover is as fresh as whenfirst, some twelve years since, it came into my possession. A flowerfreshly plucked, one would say--a brown-and-yellow flower, with alittle gilt butterfly fluttering over it. And its inner petals, itsdelicately proportioned pages, are as white and undishevelled asthough they never had been opened. The book lies open before me, as Iwrite. I must be careful of my pen's transit from inkpot to MS.

Yet, I know, many worthy folk would like the book blotted out ofexistence. These are they who understand and love the art of painting,but neither love nor understand writing as an art. For them The GentleArt of Making Enemies is but something unworthy of a great man.Certainly, it is a thing incongruous with a great hero. And for mostpeople it is painful not to regard a great man as also a great hero;hence all the efforts to explain away the moral characteristicsdeducible from The Gentle Art of Making Enemies, and to prove thatWhistler, beneath a prickly surface, was saturated through and throughwith the quintessence of the Sermon on the Mount.

Well! hero-worship is a very good thing. It is a wholesome exercisewhich we ought all to take, now and again. Only, let us not strainourselves by overdoing it. Let us not indulge in it too constantly.Let hero-worship be reserved for heroes. And there was nothing heroicabout Whistler, except his unfaltering devotion to his own ideals inart. No saint was he, and none would have been more annoyed than he bycanonisation; would he were here to play, as he would have playedincomparably, the devil's advocate! So far as he possessed theChristian virtues, his faith was in himself, his hope was for theimmortality of his own works, and his charity was for the defects inthose works. He is known to have been an affectionate son, anaffectionate husband; but, for the rest, all the tenderness in himseems to have been absorbed into his love for such things in nature aswere expressible through terms of his own art. As a man in relation tohis fellow-men, he cannot, from any purely Christian standpoint, beapplauded. He was inordinately vain and cantankerous. Enemies, as hehas wittily implied, were a necessity to his nature; and he seems tohave valued friendship (a thing never really valuable, in itself, to areally vain man) as just the needful foundation for future enmity.Quarrelling and picking quarrels, he went his way through lifeblithely. Most of these quarrels were quite trivial and tedious. Inthe ordinary way, they would have been forgotten long ago, as thetrivial and tedious details in the lives of other great men areforgotten. But Whistler was great not merely in painting, not merelyas a wit and dandy in social life. He had, also, an extraordinarytalent for writing. He was a born writer. He wrote, in his way,perfectly; and his way was his own, and the secret of it has died withhim. Thus, conducting them through the Post Office, he has conductedhis squabbles to immortality.

Immortality is a big word. I do not mean by it that so long as thisglobe shall endure, the majority of the crawlers round it will spendthe greater part of their time in reading The Gentle Art of MakingEnemies. Even the pre-eminently immortal works of Shakespeare are readvery little. The average of time devoted to them by Englishmen cannot(even though one assess Mr. Frank Harris at eight hours per diem, andMr. Sidney Lee at twenty-four) tot up to more than a small fraction ofa second in a lifetime reckoned by the Psalmist's limit. When I dubWhistler an immortal writer, I do but mean that so long as there are afew people interested in the subtler ramifications of English prose asan art-form, so long will there be a few constantly-recurring readersof The Gentle Art.

There are in England, at this moment, a few people to whom proseappeals as an art; but none of them, I think, has yet done justice toWhistler's prose. None has taken it with the seriousness it deserves.I am not surprised. When a man can express himself through two media,people tend to take him lightly in his use of the medium to which hedevotes the lesser time and energy, even though he use that medium notless admirably than the other, and even though they themselves careabout it more than they care about the other. Perhaps this verypreference in them creates a prejudice against the man who does notshare it, and so makes them sceptical of his power. Anyhow, ifDisraeli had been unable to express himself through the medium ofpolitical life, Disraeli's novels would long ago have had the duewhich the expert is just beginning to give them. Had Rossetti not beenprimarily a poet, the expert in painting would have acquired long agohis present penetration into the peculiar value of Rossetti'spainting. Likewise, if Whistler had never painted a picture, and, evenso, had written no more than he actually did write, this essay inappreciation would have been forestalled again and again. As it is, Iam a sort of herald. And, however loudly I shall blow my trumpet, notmany people will believe my message. For many years to come, it willbe the fashion among literary critics to pooh-pooh Whistler, thewriter, as an amateur. For Whistler was primarily a painter--not lessthan was Rossetti primarily a poet, and Disraeli a statesman. And hewill not live down quicklier than they the taunt of amateurishness inhis secondary art. Nevertheless, I will, for my own pleasure, blow thetrumpet.

I grant you, Whistler was an amateur. But you do not dispose of a manby proving him to be an amateur. On the contrary, an amateur with realinnate talent may do, must do, more exquisite work than he could do ifhe were a professional. His very ignorance and tentativeness may be,must be, a means of especial grace. Not knowing `how to do things,'having no ready-made and ready-working apparatus, and being inconstant fear of failure, he has to grope always in the recesses ofhis own soul for the best way to express his soul's meaning. He has toshift for himself, and to do his very best. Consequently, his work hasa more personal and fresher quality, and a more exquisite `finish,'than that of a professional, howsoever finely endowed. All of the muchthat we admire in Walter Pater's prose comes of the lucky chance thathe was an amateur, and never knew his business. Had Fate thrown himout of Oxford upon the world, the world would have been the richer forthe prose of another John Addington Symonds, and would have forfeitedWalter Pater's prose. In other words, we should have lost a half-crownand found a shilling. Had Fate withdrawn from Whistler his vision forform and colour, leaving him only his taste for words and phrases andcadences, Whistler would have settled solidly down to the art ofwriting, and would have mastered it, and, mastering it, have lost thatespecial quality which the Muse grants only to them who approach hertimidly, bashfully, as suitors.

Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps Whistler would never, in any case, haveacquired the professional touch in writing. For we know that he neveracquired it in the art to which he dedicated all but the surplus ofhis energy. Compare him with the other painters of his day. He was achild in comparison with them. They, with sure science, solved roughlyand readily problems of modelling and drawing and what not that henever dared to meddle with. It has often been said that his art was anart of evasion. But the reason of the evasion was reverence. He kepthimself reverently at a distance. He knew how much he could not do,nor was he ever confident even of the things that he could do; andthese things, therefore, he did superlatively well, having to gropefor the means in the recesses of his soul. The particular quality ofexquisiteness and freshness that gives to all his work, whether oncanvas or on stone or on copper, a distinction from and above anycontemporary work, and makes it dearer to our eyes and hearts, is aquality that came to him because he was an amateur, and that abidedwith him because he never ceased to be an amateur. He was a masterthrough his lack of mastery. In the art of writing, too, he was amaster through his lack of mastery. There is an almost exact parallelbetween the two sides of his genius. Nothing could be more absurd thanthe general view of him as a masterly professional on the one side anda trifling amateur on the other. He was, certainly, a painter whowrote; but, by the slightest movement of Fate's little finger, hemight have been a writer who painted, and this essay have been writtennot by me from my standpoint, but by some painter, eager to suggestthat Whistler's painting was a quite serious thing.

Yes, that painting and that writing are marvellously akin; and suchdifferences as you will see in them are superficial merely. I spoke ofWhistler's vanity in life, and I spoke of his timidity and reverencein art. That contradiction is itself merely superficial. Bob Acres wastimid, but he was also vain. His swagger was not an empty assumptionto cloak his fears; he really did regard himself as a masterful anddare-devil fellow, except when he was actually fighting. Similarly,except when he was at his work, Whistler, doubtless, really did thinkof himself as a brilliant effortless butterfly. The pose was,doubtless a quite sincere one, a necessary reaction of feeling. Well,in his writing he displays to us his vanity; whilst in his Painting wediscern only his reverence. In his writing, too, he displays hisharshness--swoops hither and thither a butterfly equipped with sharplittle beak and talons; whereas in his painting we are conscious onlyof his caressing sense of beauty. But look from the writer, as shownby himself, to the means by which himself is shown. You will find thatfor words as for colour-tones he has the same reverent care, and forphrases as for forms the same caressing sense of beauty.Fastidiousness--`daintiness,' as he would have said--dandyishness, aswe might well say: by just that which marks him as a painter is hemarked as a writer too. His meaning was ever ferocious; but hismethod, how delicate and tender! The portrait of his mother, whom heloved, was not wrought with a more loving hand than were his portraitsof Mr. Harry Quilter for The World.

His style never falters. The silhouette of no sentence is everblurred. Every sentence is ringing with a clear vocal cadence. There,after all, in that vocal quality, is the chief test of good writing.Writing, as a means of expression, has to compete with talking. Thetalker need not rely wholly on what he says. He has the help of hismobile face and hands, and of his voice, with its various inflexionsand its variable pace, whereby he may insinuate fine shades ofmeaning, qualifying or strengthening at will, and clothing naked wordswith colour, and making dead words live. But the writer? He canexpress a certain amount through his handwriting, if he write in aproperly elastic way. But his writing is not printed in facsimile. Itis printed in cold, mechanical, monotonous type. For his every effecthe must rely wholly on the words that he chooses, and on the order inwhich he ranges them, and on his choice among the few hard-and-fastsymbols of punctuation. He must so use those slender means that theyshall express all that he himself can express through his voice andface and hands, or all that he would thus express if he were a goodtalker. Usually, the good talker is a dead failure when he tries toexpress himself in writing. For that matter, so is the bad talker. Butthe bad talker has the better chance of success, inasmuch as theinexpressiveness of his voice and face and hands will have sharpenedhis scent for words and phrases that shall in themselves convey suchmeanings as he has to express. Whistler was that rare phenomenon, thegood talker who could write as well as he talked. Read any page of TheGentle Art of Making Enemies, and you will hear a voice in it, and seea face in it, and see gestures in it. And none of these is quite likeany other known to you. It matters not that you never knew Whistler,never even set eyes on him. You see him and know him here. The voicedrawls slowly, quickening to a kind of snap at the end of everysentence, and sometimes rising to a sudden screech of laughter; and,all the while, the fine fierce eyes of the talker are flashing out atyou, and his long nervous fingers are tracing extravagant arabesquesin the air. No! you need never have seen Whistler to know what he waslike. He projected through printed words the clean-cut image andclear-ringing echo of himself. He was a born writer, achievingperfection through pains which must have been infinite for that we seeat first sight no trace of them at all.

Like himself, necessarily, his style was cosmopolitan and eccentric.It comprised Americanisms and Cockneyisms and Parisian argot, withconstant reminiscences of the authorised version of the Old Testament,and with chips off Molie`re, and with shreds and tags of what-notsnatched from a hundred-and-one queer corners. It was, in fact, an